Nine Tenths of the Law
by Halfpenny
Summary: RENT: Actions speak louder than words. Dark.


**--nine tenths of the law**

_--ed. 5/22-6/14/2k3_

It was damn hot.

Maureen reached up to brush away an errant lock from her forehead, not bothering to pat it into place. It would stay where she wanted it to, for now, as well would the other reddish-brown strands, until she wished otherwise. Actually, most things worked that way

…

Now that she thought about it, it probably wasn't at all hot or even slightly _warm outside –the bright glitter of frost on the window was excellent testimony to that—but she felt that sensation all the same, the weight, the glow in her palms (attractive women weren't known to perspire) and most importantly, the _feeling_, as if something important was about to occur. It was. "What about Chinese?" she suggested._

Roger's gaze, previously concentrated on a corner of the ceiling, slid to her. "What about it?"

"To eat." She examined a rough cuticle on her pinky finger and debated whether or not to get pissy about it. "Mark'll be home in about a half an hour, maybe less, but it's hell getting him to order these days. You know, he'll be all like, 'Sure, honey, Chinese sounds good,' and then he'll go into his room to 'jot something down' and won't come out for decades." After another moment's inspection she abruptly forgot the misfortune and gestured empathetically, careful to do it in such a manner that her chest bounced twice, and magnificently. "Seriously! I'll go in there and he'll be up to his waist in screenplays. Then he sees me and has the nerve to say stuff like, 'Oh, did you need something?' What are you staring at, anyway?"

 He had returned his attention to the ceiling; at her inquiry, he shrugged and trailed his fingers listlessly over the strings. "Spider. It makes webs over the broom corner just to make a point, I swear. … Woah, hey, don't kill it! It keeps the flies away. Plus, it's like, been at it for hours…"

"There aren't any flies in winter."

He lifted a shoulder. "Case in point." 

"Roger," she said, "It's ugly and it's creepy."

"So's Benny. I don't see you going after him_._"

Maureen toyed with several graphic mental images. "_Someone_ should," she decided, and smiled. "It'd do him good, in my opinion." Another glance at the corner gave her a feeling of grudging admiration; the thing was persistent, if nothing else, and at least the web was pretty: all fine lines and sharp edges. Sighing, she placed her hands on her hips and turned to face Roger expectantly. "So, what about Chinese?"

"What about it?"

"Roger!"

"Fine! Do I _look like someone who gives a shit?" Something twanged, and he settled back into a one-two-one pattern, making the transition from key to key effortlessly. "Fuck. Just get me an eggroll or something."_

"That's more like it. Where's the phonebook?"

He made a vague 'over there' motion with his chin. "We were using it as a doorstop. Don't get your hopes up—we had to use some of the pages for toilet paper a while back. We tried to stay community information and the government listing, but when you gotta go—"

"Men are disgusting." She retrieved the book and retreated to the phone. "_You are disgusting. Don't you want anything else?"_

"Besides toilet paper? Nothing. But." He paused, gently thumbing the sixth string. "Don't forget to get Mark some of the stuff too. And white rice, he loves that."

She flipped through the phonebook. "I know what he likes," she said coldly. "I did end up living with him for about a half a year, for some reason or another."

If Roger noticed the sudden antipathy he chose not to comment. "You don't really know him that well anymore. He's changed a lot, especially since…"

She finally settled on the appropriate page and began skimming down the lines. "You can say her name, Roger," she said. "Not saying it just means you don't accept the truth. You _have to in order to move on. Mimi's dead, and no amount of denial will bring her back."_

Once that would have made him leap to his feet, red-faced and furious, hurling accusations and vows to forget them all and life in general and 'shit', and then would have possibly led to anything from mild to extensive property damage. Now, tempered by age and numb to emotion, he only shrugged and averted his gaze. The tempo slowed as the melody dipped into the minor scales. Maureen dialed. 

Joanne had hated Chinese, she remembered as she placed the receiver gently against her ear. They had always fought about it. The lawyer herself came from a self-proclaimed 'meat an' potaters' kind of family; in contrast, Maureen enjoyed foreign food, the more outrageous the better, and was in no way 'meat and potatered'. The differences in opinion often led to nasty confrontations, usually ending with some sort of temporary separation, in which Joanne would take the car and lock her apartment door, _sorry_.

but Joanne was gone now, having met with an unfortunate accident downtown at the first of the year; responsible and considerate, she had made a genuine attempt to escape from the path of the speeding vehicle as it charged up the curb, _excuse me, please, but the mysterious hit-and-run driver hadn't been nearly so polite…_

Click. _"What you __want?" _

"Easy, sweetie, just an order." Reminding herself that the best food often came with bad service, Maureen rattled off the list with practiced ease, adding sweet and sour chicken as an afterthought. More than anything else, she loved stabbing each moist, tender piece with her chopsticks, watching the red juices spread over the white rice, the meat twisting and mutating with each skilled 

_jab_

and then of course there was that Day, way back now, but so vivid it might as well have been yesterDay –it had been full of accomplishments, the first of which involved seducing April –quite a task, actually, considering how firmly set in heterosexuality the younger girl had been—then forcing her to admit that she had had an affair with another resident of the same building, because April had needed to get a fix, and managed to hold off just long enough to try and scribble a note to Roger, bless her, about the new contact and the new dealer, all in her careful, precise C-A-P-I-T-A-L L-E-T-T-E-R-I-N-G

_…_

Maureen quietly hung up the phone, tapping a finger against her chin thoughtfully

..

probably with the intent of spelling out 'WE'VE GOT A BETTER OFFER', she was sure of it, actually, but then she'd interrupted the process with a sharp blow to the head, followed by two 

n e a t cuts along the veins, crimson patterns splattering onto the cracked enamel finish of the bathtub, so

pretty

… and, just for fun, three more letters to the message in the same red-inked, block lettered style. Roger, aggrieved and suffering from withdrawal, had not questioned the new message. AND, as an added bonus, he had locked himself in the loft for a good six months, where no girl could get to him –sometimes not even Maureen herself.

Mimi had almost ruined it then, like most unexpected and unwelcome surprises, but Maureen had seen to it that she got at least a year to enjoy the guitarist's company before her mysterious tumble off the balcony of her apartment. No one could say she wasn't generous, perhaps even to a fault    

…

"They coming?" asked Roger.

Maureen allowed herself a small measure of indulgence, letting her gaze travel over the exposed skin. His eyes were nice too, she observed; a beautiful stormy color in the dim lights of the loft, though probably due more to the color of his shirt than anything. "They don't usually deliver over to this part of town, you know," she said, and winked. "But you know me and all my methods of persuasion."

"Nng," he grunted. His eyes suddenly shifted past her, and he made a curt incline of his chin.

Maureen turned. Mark had finished locking the door and had turned towards them, rubbing his hands together briskly. His cheeks and ears were pink. "Hi, Maureen," he greeted her. His gaze flitted to Roger. Something in it softened. "How you holding up, Rodge?"

Roger shrugged. His thumb ran gently down the strings, sending an open G echoing around the loft. "I'll live. You look cold."

"Yeah. I have no luck at all, have I ever mentioned that? Right. A car splashed a _lake on me back on eighth, and it's cold enough out there to freeze the nipples off of Frosty, assuming he had any –what would they make them out of, anyway? Corn kernels? Thimbles?"_

"Binkies," Roger supplied.

"Then there's me, _moron of the east side, climbing a tree to get this aerial shot and fuckin' _tearing_ my gloves on the way down." Mark brushed past Maureen and sank into the chair by the table, carefully taking the camera from its safety strap. He brightened. "But I _did _get the shot I wanted!"_

"My mom sent me a pair of gloves last week." E major, A major, _twang_. "They have little dancing bears on them. You can have them."

"I'm touched," Mark said wryly. "I guess anything's better than those Winnie the Pooh mittens. Every time you wiggled your thumb it looked like Piglet was raping Eeyore."

Maureen tapped her foot once, lightly. When neither of them turned she made a point of sauntering between them, expertly maneuvering her body and thrusting herself around the obstacles, making full use of the perky splendor beneath her cream-colored sweater. "How's it going, Pookie?" she whispered, running her fingers lightly down Mark's jaw, and grinned wickedly when he flushed deeply. If nothing else, Mark was a good fuck, and damned if she was going to let him slip between her fingers just because they happened to be 'off' at the moment  … "I ordered dinner."

He smiled up at her disarmingly, effectively spoiling the mood. "Hey, sounds good. Listen…" He stood and stretched, yawning expansively. "I have a few things I need to jot down about the shots I took today. Call me when dinner comes, eh?" Nodding to Roger, he made his way across the living room and retreated into his own. The guitarist watched him go, twanging another string absently.

Maureen's eyes narrowed. Straightening, she shook out her hair briskly, enjoying the feel of the silky locks against her shoulders 

  …

and then she meandered into the kitchen, stepping around a de-laced shoe and a pair of dirty, discarded jeans.  The middle drawer under the sink was slightly ajar; pulling at the knob gently, she uncovered a cluttered mess of silverware, stirring spoons, and various other utensils. Reaching into the very bottom, she rummaged around until she finally found what she was looking for, and lifted the two slender sticks out from the jumbled mess, and smiled faintly, because more than anything else she loved stabbing each moist, tender piece with her chopsticks, watching the red juices spread over the white rice, the meat twisting and mutating with each skilled jab because, 

in the end, 

Patience had outlasted april and mimi and Strength had bested joanne.

Determination would get her Roger.

She stared at the closed door of her ex-boyfriend's room, expression shifting subtly. The chopsticks clutched tightly in her fist shook. Cracked   

…


End file.
